Brûlure de Graisse
by Muriel Candytuft
Summary: Linguini is introduced to the wonderful world of cooking and the burns that come with it. Set during the film. Happy 2009!


Brûlure de Graisse

_A/N: Happy New Year, my friends, and here's a during-film one-shot that I hope you enjoy!_

OoOoOoOoOoO

"Aaahh!"

Colette's back stiffened as a yelp and curse from Linguini, who had been under her reluctant instruction for two weeks, brought her out of her egg-beating trance. That wasn't just another "darn-it-I'm-so-clumsy-I-stubbed-my-toe-against-my-other-toe" yelp, but a yelp of real pain. She quickly turned around and saw the kid staggering away from some chicken fillets sizzling on the grill. He was clenching his fists, muttering curse words as he veered toward the freezer. The sixth sense of haute cuisine told Colette she'd need the first aid kit. She abandoned her egg whites, removed the chicken from the fire, and picked up the first aid kit.

"All right, stop where you are and let me see the burn."

He halted, Chuck Taylors squeaking on the checkered tile. "You – oh, you saw that?"

"You scream like a schoolgirl while browning chicken; it can only mean a burn." As Linguini moved again toward the freezer, Colette restrained him by a sleeve. "Let me see."

"Okay, okay."Linguini gave up on his escape attempt and sheepishly held out his left hand.

Colette took it by the wrist and turned it over. A swollen, pink splotch glowed from the back of his hand, at the base of the thumb. No skin broken, but it would probably blister before the day was through. She dragged Linguini by the wrist to the sink and directed him to stand there and wash the burn in cool water while she prepared a bandage.

As she unzipped the canvas first aid bag, he yelped again.

"_Cool_ water, Linguini, not cold."

"R-right. Yeah." Linguini adjusted the temperature.

"And on that note, let me warn you – never, ever, use ice on a burn. Ice will stick to the burn and then you will have to get it off without making the burn worse – which is impossible and only causes more pain. So next time you burn yourself, don't even look at the freezer."

"N – oh. Next t-time?" Linguini sounded as though his teeth were chattering.

"Yes, next time," Colette said evenly, unwrapping a bandage. "What, do you think that the only hazards in this kitchen are rats and sharp knives?" She watched him wince. "With your utter lack of coordination, you're lucky that you've escaped this with only a minor grease burn. If this were an office block in La Défense, this burn would be on level with a paper cut – it's just part of the job. Believe me, you _will _get burned again," she announced grimly, "and next time, you may not get off so easily. So wipe that panicked expression off your face and take it like a man."

Linguini obeyed, but it was quite clear from his posture and sigh that Colette had ruined his day. She finished the bandage and returned to the sink with it, and a small tube of aloe vera gel that she carried around for this reason. "Fortunately for you, this burn is minor enough that we can apply some aloe to it." She turned the water off and reached for Linguini's hand. "It will speed up the healing."

As soon as he saw the gel tube, Linguini snatched his hand away and backed away a step or two. "Whoa, I – oh, gee – does it – sting?"

Colette's patience was already thin. "What are you, a six-year-old? No, it does not sting. It cools the burn. Let me see."

Linguini hesitated.

Colette threw her hands in the air. "Screw this. Bandage it yourself. I have a meringue to finish."

Ignoring Linguini's wail of, "No, no, I don't know – I can't – " Colette turned back toward her station. She took two quick steps, slowed on the third, and stopped on the fourth. Wasn't that almost exactly how Skinner had treated her first burn? Colette remembered, without wishing to, how much it had hurt when she'd burned herself on her first day in the kitchen. She glanced down toward her right palm, at the faint pink line that traversed it.

_A hot roasting pan had given it to her. Of course, she screamed and dropped the pan, splattering the floor with roasted vegetables and boiling cream sauce. _

_Gusteau was in his office at the time, so Colette, confused and nearly in tears over the pain, reported to Skinner. He rolled his eyes, went to the closet, and brought back the first-aid kit._

_Colette's good hand trembled as she opened the first-aid kit. She remembered, from the academy, how to treat the burn, but she had never been burned this badly before. And the pain, coupled with the stress of the entire day, made it impossible to do anything but stare at the bandages and blink tears away._

_Skinner let out a small huff. "Bandage it yourself. I have work to do. And so do you. Hurry up and get that burn bandaged so you can clean up your mess."_

_"Oui, chef," Colette whispered hoarsely._

_"Hold on; let me see the burn, Colette."_

_Colette looked up, cursing silently as a few tears spilled over. Gusteau was standing over her and Skinner, with a look of genuine, non-rushed concern. Colette held her hand out and the portly man bent over to examine it. "How did this happen?"_

_In answer, Colette pointed at her mess, which, due to her delay, Horst was now cleaning._

_Gusteau nodded. "Okay, where's the aloe? Luckily, this isn't so bad a burn that we can't use aloe on it." He rummaged through the first-aid kit until he found it, carefully applied some of the sour-smelling ointment to the burn with a cotton swab, and covered it with a bandage. "I wish I could say this will never happen again. Are you all right?"_

_Colette nodded. He __patted her shoulder and nodded, and she was glad to find no condescension in the gesture._

_She flexed her right hand, which made the burn hurt like the dickens. But it was still functional. With a sigh, she went to help Horst with the vegetables on the floor._

Linguini was waiting, hesitant. His injured hand was shaking slightly. Colette had never been able to stand men who put on a macho invincible act when hurt, so she was struck by how trusting Linguini seemed. He almost reminded her of a child who'd been told several times by his mother not to touch the hot pans on the stovetop and now, while suffering the consequences of defiant curiosity, was depending on his mother to make the pain go away.

Colette glanced down at the aloe tube still in her hand. It was, to her knowledge, the same aloe Gusteau had given her six years ago. As she thought about how carefully he had applied it – and how considerately, no condescension and no amused disdain – Colette grabbed Linguini's wrist and squeezed a drop of the aloe onto the burn. "There."

She wrapped the bandage around the burn enough to seal it, but loosely enough to let it breathe and preserve the hand's mobility. "You'll be fine. It'll blister, but don't touch it until tomorrow."

"Okay."

"You get off easily this time, don't forget that." Colette put the chicken he'd been working on back on the flame and beckoned him over. "One time last spring, Larousse burned himself so badly that it looked like he had glued a golf-ball sized bag of yellow pus to his arm."

Linguini winced, exactly the reaction Colette was looking for. "Ouch," was all he could say.

She smiled, crossing her arms. "Yeah. Ouch. So – you can handle this chicken now, yes?"

"Yeah, okay." Linguini got back to work, attacking the chicken with his usual abrupt energy that Colette both envied and admired. Finally satisfied with herself, Colette returned to her meringue.


End file.
